


Bad Portents: Further Predictions Of Agnes Nutter, Which Nobody Read

by Prismatic Bell (Nina_Dances_In_Technicolor)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Does anybody involved in this actually know how to plan a heist to take over Earth?, First came Armageddon now it's time for the Messiah, General Shenanigans, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Judaism, Kid Fic, M/M, Other, Post-Canon, Sources say no, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 05:59:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20092414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina_Dances_In_Technicolor/pseuds/Prismatic%20Bell
Summary: Crowley was right. The Big One really is Heaven and Hell against Earth.The thing is, the thing is . . . he wasn't expecting him and Aziraphale to be counted on the mortal side, or to be in charge of raising its very messy general.





	Bad Portents: Further Predictions Of Agnes Nutter, Which Nobody Read

**Author's Note:**

> If you're wondering if this follows book canon or show canon, the answer is yes. If you're a show fan and there's something you don't recognize, it's probably in the book. If you're a book fan and there's something you don't recognize, it's probably in the show.
> 
> This story is based almost entirely off Neil saying on Tumblr that his being Jewish strongly influenced Good Omens, because nobody familiar with the midrashim could ever assume anybody in the Bible has any idea what they're doing, combined with a post going around Jewish Tumblr in which we argued long and vigorously over whether Crowley would actually be able to enter a synagogue. You've been warned.
> 
> Facecast for Azreth is Rooney Mara as Lisbeth Salander.

BAD PORTENTS

Being a real and true account of the twelve years before the Messianic Age, in accordance   
with prophesies written by Agnes Nutter and never actually read due to their being burned at   
the end of the last book 

Compiled and edited with footnotes and explanations of an explanatory nature,   
particularly for those who have not read the book and also those who are not Jewish,   
by an author who shall remain anonymous lest xe have to explain   
to xer boss why xer name is attached to a story   
about queer angels on the Internet

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

SUPERNATURAL BEINGS

The Almighty (the creator of the ineffable plan, constant source of aggravation)  
Aziraphale (a bookseller and retired angel with a food blog)  
Crowley (a retired demon who enjoys being a pest, mostly)  
Beelzebub (a very bored Lord of Hell)  
Dagon (Lord of the Files)  
Hastur (a particularly nervous Duke of Hell)  
Azreth (a demon with an unhealthy apathetic enjoyment of My Chemical Romance)  
Gabriel (an extremely uptight Archangel)  
Sandalphon (an incredibly fussy Archangel)  
Uriel (an extraordinarily stern Archangel)  
Michael (a rather morally-shifty Archangel who's discovered Reddit)  
Adam (a former Antichrist)

HUMANS

Anathema Device-Pulsifer (a witch and consultant)  
Newton Device-Pulsifer (a househusband)  
Wensleydale (a business student)  
Pepper (a women's studies student)  
Brian (a mechanic)  
Mrs. Rebecca Morton (a neighbor)  
Dany (a child)  
Robin (a child)  
Sarah Grace (a Messiah)

Complimented by a full ensemble of townspeople, assorted lesser angels   
and demons, angry humans, many cats, and an excessive number   
of rabbinic quotations

Seven years, four months, and eighteen days after the end of the world, the forces of Heaven and Hell come for them again.

They should have been expecting it, really, Crowley thinks, as he jolts awake mid-snore. Aziraphale is still stretched across his lap, one arm flung out to the side, a pen below his open fingertips, an old Bible sitting on one leg. The left page of it is covered in Aziraphale's neat Aramaic handwriting and a single despairing _why?????_ in English next to a circled line (1). Nobody will ever accept a translation by one eccentric bookseller as a definitive edition, but it doesn't stop Aziraphale from his compulsive editing anyway.

Of course, from the way Uriel is glaring at them both, _something_ might stop Aziraphale's editing, and soon, if Crowley doesn't think fast.

“Right!” he says, loudly, hoping to jolt Aziraphale awake without having a Bible dropped directly onto parts of his human anatomy he's rather fond of. “Gabriel. Lord Beelzebub. Everyone. Pleasure to see you all.” He twitches one leg under Aziraphale's shoulder. Aziraphale startles awake. The Bible falls, and Aziraphale bats it onto the sofa just in time, swiveling into a prim sitting position and then up to standing so quickly Crowley thinks he might have miracled it. 

“Yes,” he says, and he sounds calm enough, but Crowley notices his eyes following a fly out of Beelzebub's mouth and into the remains of Aziraphale's wine. “It's been some time. To what do we owe the, er . . . distinction?”

Gabriel's eyes flicker to Crowley. He's damned if he'll be told what to do—and damned if he won't, too, frankly—but for Aziraphale's safety, he stands up anyway. Michael glances at Crowley in what he thinks might be equal parts fear and admiration.

“The two of you have been chosen for an assignment—” they say, and then Hastur coughs wetly.

“Now that we art all here,” he says, and Crowley groans internally. “Let us recite the Deeds of the Day.” He glowers, as if he expects Crowley to buckle. “I have collaborated with Dagon to tempt an elections official. We have convinced him that the current security precautions in his work are overzealous. He will grow complacent in his duties and allow the, ah . . . ” He glances at Dagon.

“The digital corruption of voting data by a third party,” Dagon fills in(2). “The free system now available for purchase. Within four years, we shall have him—and all those who benefit by him.”

“Very nice,” Crowley says. “Modern. Branching out.”

Beelzebub looks bored. “I've kept them all in line,” ze says. “I think that'zzz enough to be getting on with.” Ze stares at Crowley, not quite complacently. “And you?”

“Right! Me. I, er . . . ” He's sat about the flat over the bookshop napping for most of the day, actually. He didn't do any Deeds today. Or yesterday, for that matter. Or, strictly speaking, for the last seven or so years.

Aziraphale coughs something that sounds suspiciously not like a cough.

“Right! I've tempted an angel, he's on a diet and I convinced him a third croissant couldn't hurt.”

There's a small squeak that might be a stifled laugh. Based on their faces, Crowley's bet is on Michael. Hastur peers at him bewilderedly.

“ . . . . what's a croissant?”

“Oh, they're the most _delectable_ pastries,” Aziraphale cuts in. “French. Viennoiseries, strictly speaking. Very rich, with butter.” His face suddenly collapses from delighted to despairing. “Oh, but they're _awful_ when one's trying to improve one's eating habits . . . ”

“_Moving on,_” Uriel interjects. “The two of you have been chosen for an assignment of great significance to the future of existence as we know it.”

“Thought we were being left alone,” Crowley says nonchalantly. Mostly nonchalantly. As nonchalantly as a fugitive demon surrounded by his boss, and greatest enemy in Hell, and half a dozen angels possibly could. “Not given new assignments.”

Gabriel looks like he's just bitten into a moldy lemon. “The Almighty's plans are—”

“I'd _strongly_ advise you not say it, Gabriel, he'll miracle bees at you,” Aziraphale says (3). The look of sour disgust deepens. 

“Your assignment has been given by someone much higher than me. I, personally, think reality would be better off if both of you had—”

There's a loud bang from the direction of the front door, and a sickly-pale demon with a Justin Bieber haircut and a pair of piercings through her—his—its—_their_ lip slouches in carrying a basket. Crowley immediately puts his hands up, too alarmed to even be pleased at himself for inventing the Justin Bieber haircut.

“Nope, absolutely not. Did this whole thing once, I am _not_ going to—”

“Crowley,” Beelzebub cuts in. “Azreth. Your . . . . replacement.” Ze turns to the slouchy demon. “Where is it?”

Azreth manages to look even more bored than Beelzebub as they drop the basket onto the floor. Its contents let out a distressed wail, leaving no doubt to what's inside. 

“We're teaming up on this one,” Azreth says, and snaps their bubblegum. Michael glares at them. “Delivery.” (4)

“Teaming—what, what do you mean, teaming up?” Aziraphale doesn't quite look panicked. Quite. He's glancing rather too frequently at the basket, but he still manages to look calm. More or less. “Heaven and Hell?”

“Precisely,” says Uriel. “The end times are near. Or what could be the end times. The two of you have been tasked to raise the child who will decide it all.” She reaches out a hand for the basket Azreth dropped, and the wailing inside ceases. 

“The—well, another—Antichrist?” Aziraphale eyes the basket. Beelzebub stares listlessly at it. 

“No,” ze says. “Thizz one is entirely human.”

“Born of David's line,” Michael murmurs, and pushes back the lid of the basket. 

The child inside has skin the same deep golden brown as the stones at Masada—a fortress Crowley won't soon forget—and thick black curls not so different from a man he once watched hang from a cross. Her eyes are closed, but Crowley has no doubt they'll open soon. Aziraphale peers over Crowley's shoulder, and Uriel tips the basket handles into his hands before he can protest.

“You're to see to her education,” Uriel says. “And under no circumstances is she to know your true identities.”

Gabriel snaps his fingers. The archangels in the room step into a neatly assembled line. The demons glance at each other, Azreth and Beelzebub lethargic, Hastur jittery, Dagon the only one trying to be imposing. They vanish, followed shortly by Gabriel and Uriel. Michael nods at them both. 

“I've been operating out of Scotland,” they say. “But home office has set things up so if you need assistance you can reach me directly.” And then they, too, are gone, before either Crowley or Aziraphale can ask what that's even supposed to _mean_.

Aziraphale looks down at the nest of black curls tumbled over the soft umber face. She's sleeping now, but Crowley has no idea what they'll do with her when she wakes up. She's human. She'll have to eat. And they'll _have_ to get a diaper bin. Aziraphale touches the fine silver chain around her neck, and a small pendant in the shape of a hand falls out of her pajama suit.

“Crowley, my dear,” he murmurs. “I think—they've given us the Messiah.”

**Author's Note:**

> (1) He might not have made the changeover, but much like dancing, of all the angels only Aziraphale had bothered to learn Aramaic, and strongly disliked having to ask Crowley to cover the gaps in his vocabulary.
> 
> (2) Dagon had accidentally taken a computers class for seniors at the local library. He'd meant to tempt a cranky old man into shouting at a child, but then someone had given him an assigned laptop, instead.
> 
> (3) Strictly speaking, incorrect. Aziraphale had received bees. Gabriel was, perhaps, more likely to receive a swarm of bald-faced hornets.
> 
> (4) Azreth did not consider it a special delivery. Azreth didn't consider anything special.


End file.
